Doubly so if they had reason to suspect some scam was being planned.

They might already suspect Rus.

She knew Caxton suspected her, at least of being peripherally involved. Regardless, she had to get a look at the register. Once she had, she would know as much as Rus did-perhaps more if he hadn’t yet seen it.

Given how tight-lipped Caxton was, given her sense of his character-potentially hard and unforgiving of errors-she wasn’t going to waste time charming his clerks. Not until she’d exhausted more direct avenues.

And entrenched in her mind was the knowledge-not a guess but a certainty-that if Rus hadn’t yet learned what the register contained, then he would pursue the same direct avenue as she.

Fingers and toes mentally crossed, she prayed Rus would come there that night. Getting a look at the register and finding her twin, reassuring herself that regardless of all else, he was hale and whole, and safe…right now, that was all she asked of the deity.

Reaching the edge of the wood, she hunkered down beside a tree; slowly, she scanned the back of the building from left to right, paying attention to the layout, aligning it with what she’d seen from inside the previous day. Caxton had referred to the register as an archive. There would be more than one tome, stored who knew where, but she felt sure at least one, the one currently in use, would be in his office, sitting in the bookshelves there.

All she needed was one glance, just enough to see what those “confidential details” were.

A window to the right of the building, at the corner closest to her, had been left a tantalizing few inches open. Her eyes fixed on the darker gap; a second later her mind caught up. She’d been gauging the distance from the center of the building where the foyer was, along the corridor she’d traveled to Caxton’s office…that’s where the open window was.

She eyed the sight with burgeoning suspicion. Her words to Eugenia rang in her mind. She knew better than to underestimate a man with a beautiful face.

She stared at the window; her unease only grew. She simply could not imagine Caxton leaving that window open accidentally.

Furtive movement at the far end of the building caught her eye-a flitting shadow that instantly merged into the dim wood. She glanced again at the open window and remained where she was, stilling, breathing evenly, becoming one with the night.

The open window was a trap. But was the shadow she’d seen Rus, or Caxton keeping watch? Despite his sophisticated elegance, she wouldn’t put it past him to skulk among the bushes at midnight, ready and very willing to tangle with an intruder; his civilizing veneer wasn’t thick.

She reached with every sense, straining to hear any telltale sound, any crackle, any snap, squinting through the darkness to try to distinguish any movement, any shifting shape.

And detected a figure quietly, stealthily, making its-his-way in her direction.

Wits racing, she held her position. If it was Rus, would he realize the open window was a trap?

Even if he did, was he desperate enough, reckless enough, to chance it regardless?

Silence, complete and absolute, fell. Her heartbeat sounded loud in her ears. She could no longer hear nor see any sign of the man. The minutes stretched. Her eyes started watering; she blinked.

A figure rose from the bushes fifteen yards away. The man strode quickly out into the cleared space directly behind the building.

Pris cursed. The moon was playing hide-and-seek in the clouds; there wasn’t enough light to see the man’s face, and his clothes were too loose for her to be sure…

Slowing, the man glanced around, slipping both hands into his pockets.

And Pris knew.

Starting up, she opened her mouth to hail her twin-

Another man-one with golden hair-burst from hiding and charged toward Rus.

Pris gasped, but Rus had heard the man’s footsteps, was already pivoting to meet him.

Rus lashed out with a boot and caught Caxton’s friend in the ribs. He staggered, but then gamely flung himself on Rus.

Pris knew Rus, judged he’d win the fight, so she held still in the shadows, waiting for him to break away.

A curse and a sudden movement to her right had her swinging that way. Her heart leapt to her throat.

Another man had been hiding in the wood farther along. Caxton. Pris watched him rush to help his friend subdue Rus.

Without thought, she whirled, leapt, and crashed around in the shadows. A quick glance showed her the distraction had worked; Caxton had stopped midway between the wood and the pair wrestling before the open window. He stared into the wood.

She had a split second in which to decide whether to yell something-anything, Rus would recognize her voice-to let her twin know she was there, in Newmarket, not Ireland. But Rus was fully engaged with Caxton’s friend. Hearing her voice would distract him; knowing she was close, pursued by Caxton…Rus might do something stupid and get caught.

Caxton was still staring, unsure what he’d seen. Lips firmly shut, Pris darted back and forth, then saw his clenched hands relax. He started after her.

She turned and fled.

She knew where she was going. She told herself that was advantage enough. She was quick and nimble; she would be faster than he was darting through the trees. Once she reached her horse, she’d be safe.

He gained on her steadily.

Her heart was in her mouth, her breath sawing in and out, her lungs burning by the time she saw the faint light ahead where the trees ended and the sward began. Where her horse was tethered.

Caxton’s heavy footfalls hit the ground, it seemed mere yards behind her; she could feel the reverberations through her soles.

Desperate, she burst from the shadow of the trees and raced, gasping, flat out toward the mare-

A huge weight struck her in the middle of her back.

She went down.

Dillon knew the instant he locked his arms about the figure who it was. He’d played rugger in his school days; he’d launched the flying tackle without real thought.

But as his weight bore her down she struggled furiously and managed to half turn in his instinctively loosening hold.

He cursed and tightened his grip, but then they hit the ground, him on top with her on her back stretched full length beneath him.

The impact jarred them; they both lost their breaths. For one instant, all was still, then she transformed into a wildcat, twisting sinuously beneath him, hands rising, claws extended for his face.

He wrenched his arms free, caught her hands half a second before she made contact.

She swore at him in Gaelic, bucked, kicked, fought him like a heathen. He had to shift, twist; he only just managed to avoid her rising knee, to block it and press it back with his thigh.

“Hold still, damn it!”

She didn’t listen. He could hear her ragged breaths, almost sobs, but she seemed beyond the reach of his voice.

Ruthlessly, he exerted his strength, pressing her hands to the ground on either side of her head, relentlessly using his full weight to subdue her.

It wasn’t-definitely wasn’t-his idea of a wise move. He could feel every undulation of her supple body beneath his, every caress of her remarkably feminine, sinfully suggestive curves as she writhed beneath him.

His body had reacted instantly-painfully-to the feel of hers. Now…

“For God’s sake!” He bit off a curse. “Unless you want me to take you here and now, be still!”

That got through to her; she froze-totally and utterly.

He waited; when she remained quiet, rigid beneath him, he dragged in a breath, braced his arms, and eased his weight onto his elbows, enough to look down at her face-not enough for her to have any hope of dislodging him.

They lay in the open, their faces inches apart, but her features were shaded by his head above hers; looking up, she wouldn’t be able to see his expression any more than he could see hers.

He had to fight not to glance down at her lips, and farther, at her breasts, still heaving, repeatedly brushing his chest. He forced himself to concentrate on her eyes, wide and framed by the dark curve of her lashes. “What are you doing here?”

For one instant, she stared up at him, then she flung another Gaelic epithet at him and tensed-but she didn’t try to buck him off. Possibly because he now lay between her slender thighs. Then she spoke. “Is this how you entertain yourself, then? Accosting ladies in the woods?”

She’d poured scorn and more into her sultry voice, but there was a hint of panic edging it…

The accusation seemed singularly inapt.

Dillon frowned. He stared into her wide eyes. Despite not being able to see their expression, he suddenly understood. Suddenly realized on a wash of sensual heat just what was causing her to lose her grip on her wits.

Realized what it was keeping her lovely eyes doe-wide.

Keeping her breathing skittish and panicky.

Beneath him, he felt her quiver, recognized the response as involuntary, something she would die rather than admit to-something she couldn’t suppress or prevent.

He could feel his heartbeat heavy in his loins, could feel the heat of hers trapped beneath him, pressed against him. He felt the telltale tension thrumming through her, resistance combined with a reaction she couldn’t control.

One that left her weak.

He would never have a better chance of getting her to tell him all she knew. Deliberately, he let his hips settle more definitely between her thighs.

Her breath caught; alarm flashed through her. “Get off me.”

The last word hitched, caught.

He froze. Inwardly swore. She was one step away from outright panic. Damn-he couldn’t do this.